


in the blink of an eye

by cockwhoredan



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Other, Platonic Cuddling, Sleeping Together, Sleepy Cuddles, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut, TATINOF, The Amazing Tour Is Not on Fire, Tour Bus, Wet Clothing, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-07-11 02:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7023226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cockwhoredan/pseuds/cockwhoredan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a fic following the progression of dan and phil’s relationship over the span of their u.s. tour. (sharing beds just makes dan's heart ache for phil even more.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. florida.

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: there'll be approx. one chapter for every state they visit! keep in mind this isn't strictly what happens and i may have gotten some dates/times wrong bc i base it off their tweets.   
> as not to spoil the fic, i will be adding the major tw at the beginning of the specific angsty chapter that will come later in this fic. PLEASE keep a lookout for that.

**24th Apr /** Orlando, FL / Universal Studios

The Floridian sun is hot as all fuck, Dan is about to dislocate his shoulder with all the recording equipment weighing down his backpack, and all he wants to do is collapse on the cool, crisp sheets of his tour bus bed. The door smoothly swings open under the pressure of his forearm, allowing him to drag his luggage inside the blissfully air conditioned space. He sighs, relieved, then lifts his gaze.

A tense silence stretches across the tour bus as Dan surveys it. Generally spacious for a bus. Sleek black couches line the windowed walls; coffee tables bolted to the carpeted floor. Near the front of the bus, he even catches sight of a kitchen. (As if Dan is going to be cooking anything on a goddamn bus.  _ Hello _ . He can barely cook in a stationary kitchen.) 

There are two bedrooms, he notes. One has a flatscreen. The other does not. The first is connected to a bathroom. The other, he decides, will be Phil’s room. He whips out his phone to compose a quick tweet, just for shits and giggles, because the fans love domestic bickering almost as much as Dan does; “we just saw our usa tour bus for the first time and only one bedroom has its own tv and toilet. time to fight me @amazingphil”

The door clicks shut behind him and he turns to see Phil; He watches him make his way across the bus, wipe his brow, and dump all his luggage right next to  _ Dan’s bed. _

“Ahem.”

Dan is a generous person. Really, he thinks, his generosity is only comparable to Mother Teresa herself. 

However.

A tour through the whole of the U.S.A. cannot and will not be manageable without a flatscreen television and a bathroom three feet from his bed.

“What?” Phil questions innocently, as if he hasn’t just committed a horrendous crime against Dan’s personal comfort. 

“This is my room. I’m sleeping here.” He strides forward into the space between Phil and the neatly made bed.

“Wait,” Phil interjects, sidestepping Dan’s attempt to crowd him out of the room. “Wait, let’s be civil about this, Daniel. Let’s- let’s consider our options for a moment.”

“Oh, I’ve considered the options,” Dan affirms. “And I’ve decided that, you know, it’s only fair that I get the nice room.”

“Fair? How’s this fair?”

Dan pauses and, with all the tact and grace of a practiced diplomat, offers Phil his explanation: “Because I said it is.”

A shit eating grin spreads across his face as he watches Phil, who's trying admirably hard not to snap at him. “Listen, my arse is like, broken from falling off the stage the other day at Playlist,” he points out, eyes narrowed. “The nice room might make up for the bruise the size of Texas that's making an appearance on my behind.”

“Texas,” Dan repeats. Really, he's just egging him on at this point. “How big’s Texas, again?”

Phil huffs, shaking his head. “You’re insufferable.”

“I am a fucking  _ delight,  _ thank you very much.”

He sees Phil’s lips quirk up in a reluctant smile, and his resolve crumbles a little, because, well,  making Phil Lester smile has always been one of his greatest achievements. 

“If you were truly a delight, you’d, y’know. Let me have the room.” 

Phil’s sweet smile is all too convincing. It has Dan retreating to the inferior room, his suitcase dragging across the soft carpet behind his sock-clad feet. Damn Phil. Damn his toothy grin, and most of all, damn his ability to make Dan give in that easy. It's not his fault that Phil can shake him to the core with just a glance. 

After they've both fully unpacked (by messily stuffing bundles of clothes in random drawers), Phil pads into his room and reminds him that they're meant to head to Universal Studios with Cat and a few others. “Start getting ready now- we’ve got to leave in an hour. And I know how you are with arriving on time.”

Dan rolls his eyes, plucking a thin, black shirt from the pile of garments. He holds it up to his chest, flicking his eyes towards Phil. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. D’you think it’s too hot to wear something like this?”

Shrugging, Phil steps backwards from Dan’s doorway so that he can change. “Just remember, Cat promised us water rides.”

Dan’s lifts his hand towards his fringe, knowing that it'll curl up from the moisture in the way he despises. “Damnit.”

-

Walking around a theme park for a good few hours is physically taxing. Dan had opted for fashionable shoes instead of more comfortable ones, and Christ on a bike, does he regret it. His feet are killing him. Not only that, but he's sopping wet, water dripping down his hair. He pushes the curls from his forehead and scowls.

He should’ve just stuck with the Quidditch simulation in the Harry Potter section of the theme park. Sure, it makes Phil a little queasy, but Dan’s main focus is that simulations don’t bombard him with an onslaught of cold, probably disease-ridden water.

(In short, he shouldn’t have worn a sweater.)

“You've been pouting ever since you got soaked on that Jurassic ride,” Phil teases. They're both hanging back from the rest of the group because Dan keeps stalling, and Phil, like a watchful mother, is glued to his side. “Does water really bother you that much?”

“Shut up.”

He huffs out a tiny laugh so Phil knows he's joking, then lets his eyes travel down the pale expanse of Phil’s neck, and swallows thickly. He's just now noticing the way Phil’s wet shirt is clinging to him. It’s pulled taut, damp, defining his shoulders, his chest, his collarbones. 

Jesus. Why’s he allowed to look like pure sex on legs?

Blissfully unaware of Dan’s fascination with him, Phil ruffles the damp curls of Dan’s hair. “Hey, we can head back to the tour bus soon, if you'd like. You seem cranky. And tired.”

Maybe Dan's being a little difficult, considering he's a grown adult and shouldn't be jutting his lip out like a toddler, but he's still irked by the fact that he didn't get be nice room. Yeah. He’s definitely mature. No questions asked.

Dan sighs, relenting, and offers Phil a crooked smile. “I just need a nap. Still so fucking jet lagged, you know?” 

Phil bumps their shoulders together, sending an instant ripple of calm throughout Dan’s body. “I get it. It’s nearly 10pm, and we’re still recovering from British time,” he agrees. “Lucky for us, our beds are just a parking lot away.”

“Thank god.”

-

He never does end up in his own bed. 

Phil suggests they watch a movie before falling asleep, and Dan, albeit exhausted, agrees. He changes into a loose t-shirt and a pair of soft cotton boxers, letting himself fall back onto the mattress with a breath of relief. “What movie are we watching, then? “ he asks. “Better something action packed so I don’t pass out in the middle of it.”

Phil laughs quietly, pulling his duvet out and laying it out neatly across the mattress, covering Dan’s lower half in the process. Shit, he’s missed Phil’s duvet. Forgotten how nice it smells. 

“Does Age of Ultron sound exciting enough for you, sleepyhead?”

“Your mum’s exciting enough for me.”

“What are you, twelve?”

“Twelve inches deep in your mum.”

“I hate you.”

Dan snickers, feeling the mattress dip beside him as Phil climbs in, Pokémon pajamas hanging low on his waist. “‘Your mum’ jokes are the pinnacle of modern humor. Get with it, Lester.” Phil rolls his eyes and starts the movie, settling back into the plush pillows. It’s nice, Dan thinks as he tucks Phil’s duvet under his chin. The lights on the bus are dimmed, and while crashing and gunshots filter out through the television speakers, he finds his eyelids growing heavy with the prospect of sleep. 

“Don’t fall asleep on me now,” Phil admonishes. His voice is soft, though, and Dan’s vision blurs.

“‘M….tired.”

Dan forgets, momentarily, that he’s in Phil’s bed. He closes his eyes. The gunshots from the movie fade slowly, dissipating into dull background noise, and it’s almost peaceful. 

A quietly spoken, “Goodnight, then,” reaches him just before consciousness is lost, replaced by deep, much needed sleep.

//

**25th Apr** / Jacksonville, FL / The Times Union Center

Dan wakes with Phil’s duvet pressed to his nose and a warmth against his back. Sunlight filters through the uneven blinds, and as he forces his eyes open, his jaws part in a soft yawn. “Shit,” he mumbles, disoriented. “Wh’time’s it?” Only when Phil rolls to the side does Dan realize they’d been pressed together, the small of Phil’s back touching his own. 

Oh.

(They haven’t done something like that since late 2010. Manchester was cold, Dan remembers. The first night they’d moved in, the heating wasn’t on and the moving truck was late. No beds, just a blow-up mattress on the carpeted floor. They were a mess of quiet giggles and gangly limbs, with Dan’s face pressed into Phil’s unfortunate mane of hair.)

(Dan misses how easy it was.)

“Eight thirty,” Phil says in reply, sounding equally as tired. He doesn't comment on their sleeping arrangement, to Dan’s relief, because lack of acknowledgement surely means he isn't bothered. Stretching his arms towards the headboard, Dan glances out the bus window to admire the palm trees blurring past along the road. He tries to remember their plans for today, but his mind is still clouded with sleep. That’s fine. Phil probably knows. 

“Are we s’posed to do anything today? Besides-” Dan yawns. “Besides TATINOF at like, three? ‘S at three, right?”

Laughing softly, Phil swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands, while Dan pretends to not be completely disappointed at the loss of heat beside him. “The radio show airs at one in the afternoon here, and we have to be ready for the show at two,” he corrects.

“‘M sleepy,” Dan whines childishly, pressing his face further into the plush pillow beneath his head. 

He feels Phil’s hand between his shoulderblades, then, and practically melts into the mattress. “I know. You’re definitely not a morning person. How ‘bout I get us some breakfast and leave you to get a little more rest, hm?” God bless Phil Lester, honestly. Sometimes Dan is convinced that he’s actually a saint. Or an angel. (A precious angel bean, now that he thinks about it.)

“Blinking hell, you’re too good to me,” he half-jokes, turning his head to grin tiredly at the older man. “Mind adding a coffee?”

Phil rolls his eyes, but nods. “Caramel macchiato?”

“This is why we’re best friends.”

-

The show that night is a complete success. Dan remembers all his lines and Phil doesn’t go careening off the side of the stage. It ends with loud music and screams muffled by the thudding heartbeat in Dan’s ears, and as he glances over at his best friend, grinning wildly at the crowd beneath them. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this. The bright lights illuminate Phil’s face in the most perfect way- his cheekbones, those crystal blue eyes, his shiny black fringe that Dan has been jealous of since the first AmazingPhil video he clicked on. 

It’s like the air has been punched out of his chest every time he looks at the man. It hurts, but God, it hurts in the best way; the ache in his chest becomes almost unbearable when Phil tilts his gaze toward Dan and gives him The Smile™ (the smile that Dan has found is only reserved for him). Dan is rendered breathless. 

He remains breathless even after they change back into their normal clothing. “Christ, I don’t know how it’s possible, but this gets more fun every time we do it,” he says as he messes with his fringe in the dressing room mirror. 

“Well, I dunno, anything’s an improvement after my arse got destroyed during the first show.”

Dan tries not to laugh, he really does, but a loud cackle erupts as soon as Phil’s cheeks flush red, the older man only just now realizing the implications of his sentence.

“That sounded a lot better in my head.”

“Oh my god, you spoon,” Dan gasps out through wheezing laughter. Really, everything is hilarious when Dan’s high off adrenaline-- especially accidental innuendos. “No wonder people think we’re gay if you’re going around saying your arse got destroyed.” Phil’s cheeks redden further and he gives Dan a playful shove with one of his bony elbows (it’s a wonder Dan didn’t get jabbed in the face the night before, if he’s honest). 

“Shut up! I didn’t mean it like that.” Phil insists. 

“Uh huh. Sure, Philly. The question is,  _ who  _ exactly destroyed your arse at Playlist? Must be someone really special since I was like, ninety-nine percent sure you topped-”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. You  _ loooove  _ me.”

Phil just shakes his head and smiles.

-

It’s eleven at night when Dan, clad in an oversized tshirt and cotton pajama pants, hesitantly pushes Phil’s bedroom door open, his laptop hooked under his arm. The bus is eerily quiet, save the hum of the engine. Dan isn’t even sure if Phil is awake until his eyes catch the soft glow of Phil’s phone screen reflecting off his glasses. Goddamn, does Dan absolutely adore Phil’s glasses.

“Hi,” he says, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. The floor beneath him rocks slightly as the bus speeds past another shallow pothole. Phil’s eyes flick up towards Dan, and the sleepy smile that follows makes Dan’s heart positively melt. 

“Hey. D’you need something?” Phil clicks on the bedside lamp, bathing the whole room in a pretty, orange light as Dan takes a cautious step towards the bed that they’d shared the previous night.

“Um.” Dan starts, reaching up to nervously fiddle with a stray curl in his mop of hair. (He hates how it won’t stay straight after he takes a shower. Ridiculous.) “So, like. My mattress is really uncomfortable.” A smirk spreads across Phil’s face like he knows exactly where this is going and what a bullshit excuse Dan is conjuring up right now. 

“Oh, is it? Because I was under the impression that we both had the same type of mattress.”

“Well, we don’t. Yours is more comfortable,” Dan claims, even though both of them know it’s a lie.

“Huh. I guess it wouldn’t be fair to make you sleep on a crappy mattress.”

“It wouldn’t.” 

Phil shifts over to the right side of the bed, heaving out an exaggerated sigh. “I  _ guess  _ you can sleep here, then,” he grumbles, but the playful glint in his eyes lets Dan know that he’s not annoyed in the least. So Dan wriggles under the covers, settles his head against a pillow, and places his Macbook atop his stomach with a content exhale. Finally he presses the power button.

There’s a beat of silence, then he awkwardly clears his throat and nudges Phil’s shoulder with his own. “Hey,” Dan murmurs. “Thank you.” His eyes are fixed on the glowing screen in front of him, but he catches Phil’s gentle smile in the edge of his vision.

“‘Course. It’s… a bit weird sleeping on a bus, you know? This helps.”

Well. If Phil doesn’t mind.

“So. If I decided to sleep here tomorrow night, you wouldn’t kick me out?” He tries not to sound too hopeful. “Hypothetical question, of course.”

The lights are dim, but Phil’s grin suddenly appears, bright, blinding, and has Dan’s fingers fumbling momentarily as he types. “Wouldn’t kick you out.” Phil assures him. “ _ Hypothetically _ , you could sleep here for the rest of the tour and, well. I wouldn’t complain.”

“Hm. Good to know.”

That night, Dan’s sleep is deep and undisturbed. Usually, he’s plagued by recurring nightmares, tossing and turning until he eventually surrenders and ends up either tiredly pacing his room or lazily scrolling through the endless abyss of Tumblr. But tonight, Phil’s gentle breathing lulls him to sleep almost instantaneously. 

//

**26th Apr** / Fort Lauderdale, FL / Broward PAC

Dan doesn’t remember closing his laptop. The next morning, though, he finds it powered off and shut, laying next to the bed with the earbuds wound into a neat coil. They’re accompanied by a still-warm cup of coffee with Dan’s name scrawled hastily onto the label. 

Phil Lester, Dan decides, is almost too sweet for his own good. But. Then again. Phil  _ did  _ make the decision to get up and steal all the warmth out of the bed. Dan rewards that decision with a half-hearted screech across the bus; “Phil! Phillip. Philly. Phiw. Angel bean-”

Comically sprawled out on the bed, Dan smiles sweetly at Phil when the older man peers into the room, looking thoroughly unamused. “You know the driver can hear you, right? And Martyn. And Cornelia.” Oh. Dan had forgotten that, actually. Oops.

“For the record,” he retorts in a dramatic manner, “it’s not polite to leave a one night stand without so much as a note. I’m heartbroken.”

Phil snorts out a laugh. “Thought the coffee was compensation enough.”

“You know what would be good compensation?”

“What?”

“Telling the driver to stop at the next IHOP we see.”

The corners of Phil’s lips twitch up in a smile that Dan is proud to have caused. “Since when were you the pancake fanatic? Thought that was me.”

Dan shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee. It’s almost too sweet to drink. Exactly how he likes it. “I’m just doing it for your sake, tbh. I’m definitely not craving some of those red velvet pancakes right about now. Nope.”

“I see right through your lies, Danny boy. You just want some syrupy goodness.”

“You’re a fucking spork. Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Dan raises an eyebrow. “If this were a fanfiction, I’d pin you against a wall and kiss you senseless to shut you up. Just so you’re aware.”

“Oh my god!” Phil splutters, shaking his head. “You’re just as bad as them. Take a cold shower or something, get your mind out of the gutter.”

Dan watches Phil leave the room with a satisfied smirk, nearly certain that today will be a good day. 

-

He’s right, in the end. It’s a  _ fantastic  _ day.

They leave the tour venue with sweat sheening on their brows and matching grins, falling into step beside each other as the last strokes of sunlight fade from the horizon. Floridian sunsets are beautiful, Dan has to admit. Hues of pink and orange paint puffy clouds to look almost like cotton candy. There are palm trees and warm, salty breezes to accompany the watercolor sky overhead. (It looks better, Dan thinks, reflected in a certain pair of blue eyes.)

(He finds himself staring at Phil a lot more than he should, is what he’s trying to say.)

“So, what are our plans for tonight?” Phil asks as they approach the tour bus, shoes scuffing along the cracked pavement. The movement causes a previously sunbathing lizard to dart into a nearby shrub.

“I was thinking maybe we could get a hotel room?” Dan suggests. He raises a hand and gives the bus door a few firm knocks before glancing back at Phil. “As much as I like, adore living in this moving vehicle, I need an excuse to take a cheeky dip in a hotel pool.” He pauses, then knocks again with furrowed brows. “Martyn Lester, I promise I’m not some rabid fangirl. Let me in.”

A bus window cracks open, revealing Martyn’s skeptical gaze. “If I remember correctly,” he says, looking like he’s trying very, very hard not to smile, “you’re  _ definitely  _ a rabid fangirl. Phil trash number one, right?”

Dan can feel his cheeks burning, and for once, he’s thankful for the heat. It makes a stellar excuse for the red flush splotching across his skin. “Be quiet,” he grumbles. “I’m practically your brother in law.”

“Did I miss the wedding?”

Both Lesters giggle at Martyn’s joke, while Dan simply rolls his eyes, attempting to keep his blush moderately contained. “Listen, you little shit. I’ll tell Cornelia on you,” he bluffs. To his satisfaction, the bus doors slide open with a hiss. He steps inside, relieved as the cool air washes over his clammy skin.

“What were you saying earlier?” Phil asks, pressing the door shut behind them both with an audible click. That’s one of the things Dan has always liked about Phil. He pays attention. Always wants Dan to finish his thought, no matter how silly, and it really makes him feel… Appreciated. 

“Pool,” Dan reminds him. “Hotel.”

Phil pauses, drawing his brows together in slight concern as he makes his way towards his cluttered suitcase.

“Let’s hope I remembered to bring my swim trunks.”

-

He and Phil are, as it seems, the only two idiots that consider midnight swimming a good idea. The pool is empty, silent as Dan pads barefoot across the damp tiles with a towel thrown over his forearm. Reflections from the water dance across the ceiling, creating a relaxing sort of glow that the aesthetic-obsessed part of Dan can definitely appreciate. Phil’s the one to break the comfortable silence, cautiously dipping his foot beneath the water’s surface. “This could be the start of a serial killer movie,” he muses, because apparently, thoughts like that just randomly occur to the him. 

“Oh yeah?” Dan says teasingly.

“Obviously.” Phil deepens his voice half an octave, continuing in this overly-dramatized presenter’s voice that could probably narrate a documentary on BBC. Or Dan’s wank sessions. Whichever comes (or cums) first. “The water is shallow, the lights are dimmed, and  _ something  _ is lurking through the halls of this Florida hotel...Will two British boys survive?”

Dan muffles a giggle into his palm, tossing his towel onto one of the worn out lounge chairs surrounding the room’s perimeter. God, Phil is ridiculous, and Dan loves how his mind works. 

“The first part of that sounded like a porno, mate. Dimmed lights, a pool, two british lads. Add some lube, and we’re in business!”

When Phil swoops his arm down across the surface of the water and sends a spray of it directly into Dan’s face, it’s probably well deserved, but Dan bitches about it anyways. “You dirty motherfluffer!” he screeches, throwing himself bodily into the warm water. There’s no time to dwell on how pleasant or refreshing it might be. This means  _ war _ .

“Hold on, we can work this out!” Phil insists, but Dan attacks with an onslaught of powerful splashes. He has shitty aim, but as long as he manages to get  _ some  _ of the water to hit Phil, he considers it a success. Of course, Phil doesn’t let Dan go unscathed either. They’re both soaking wet by the end of their completely immature splash fight, gasping with laughter and wiping the chlorine from their eyes.

Dan’s nonexistent abs hurt from how much he’s cackling. 

He’s so amused, in fact, he forgets Phil didn’t bring swim trunks; he forgets Phil is in nothing but thin, white, cotton boxers. So when the older man hauls himself out of the pool, water cascading off his shoulders, Dan can’t tear his eyes away.

The wet fabric of the briefs clings to Phil’s bulge. It outlines the length of it, defines the curve where the head of Phil’s cock should be.

It’s big. Oh, fuck, is it big. Dan grips the edge of the pool and squeezes his thighs together underwater, trying not to let himself get hard. He can feel heat rushing through his body, though, and the warm current flowing into the fabric of his swim trunks doesn’t help.

Inhaling sharply, he manages to rip his gaze from the filthy sight in front of him, instead turning his gaze to his nerve-bitten fingernails. Fuck. Fucking goddamn Phil fucking Lester and his huge, thick cock--

“Everything alright?” Phil asks sweetly. He’s probably concerned because Dan’s breathing has grown uneven since he began the struggle of calming the lust bubbling up in his stomach. 

“Fine,” he replies, shooting Phil a convincing grin. “Just, er, a lot of exercise for both of us, yeah?”

Phil nods, understanding, then pushes his fringe back into a damp, infuriatingly hot quiff that does absolutely nothing to quell Dan’s problem. It’s odd, actually. Dan hasn’t been this affected by Phil since he was a teenager with a fangirl-level obsession and raging hormones. Maybe it’s due to their closeness these last few days-- the fact Dan both wakes up and falls asleep completely engulfed in Phil’s scent, how he can feel the warmth radiating from Phil’s side of the bed. 

It’s both heaven and hell at the same time. And, Dan realizes, this is only day three of the tour. Oh God. He’s actually going to die before he gets back to London. Is it even possible to die from being too gay for someone? He supposes he’ll find out. 

-

Only later that night does Dan allow his cock some relief from the pool situation. He lays in bed, silent, waiting patiently until he can hear Phil’s gentle snores from the other side of the hotel room. Phil’s a heavy sleeper, and, luckily for Dan, they’d managed to get two beds. Just staring up at the ceiling and imagining Phil’s dick has his own cock swollen and leaking.

At home, his wank schedule is once, maybe twice a day. Sleeping in the same bed as Phil, though, has severely limited him. Can he be blamed for his complete and utter desperation? 

Sucking in a breath, Dan lets his eyes flutter shut and focuses on the memory of those white, cotton briefs. He imagines dropping to his knees in front of Phil, just gently mouthing at the warm shaft of Phil’s cock and lapping appreciatively through the damp fabric. Phil would probably yank on his hair, he thinks, suppressing a whine into the clean hotel sheets. Part of him wants to be heard. The optimistic part of him that conjures up a reality where, if Phil caught him jerking off, he’d pin Dan to the mattress and fuck him senseless. 

The thought causes a drawn out whimper to surface from his throat, and suddenly, Phil’s bed creaks with shifting weight. Dan’s body goes rigid. Did Phil notice? Can he tell that Dan is fisting his precum-slick cock beneath the covers? 

A soft snore reaches Dan’s ears and he lets out a breath of relief, continuing the smooth, wet motion of his palm along the twitching shaft of his cock. He finds himself thinking about what it would be like to have Phil’s hand on him instead of his own. Honestly? He wants Phil on top of him instead of the stupid covers that make him feel even more consumed by the heat than he is. It’s all he can think about.    
  
“Phi-i-il…” he breathes out, whisper quiet and barely audible. His cock twitches in his hand at what it sounds like to call out for the older man who’s sleeping less than four feet away. “Touch me, please.” Half of it is whispered and half of it is gasped into the plush hotel pillow, his gut twisting with the frustration that he can’t be any louder. 

His legs are spread far apart across the mattress as he fucks up into his fist. Fuck. He needs to cum so badly. Needed to cum ever since he saw Phil in those goddamn briefs. Warmth curls through his abdomen and, thumbing over the head of his cock and arching his back harshly off the bed, Dan bites a moan into his clenched fist and spurts all over his chest.

It takes a while to catch his breath. Once he does, he heaves out a soft, shuddery sigh and tips his head backwards. It feels a bit dirty to have jerked off with his best friend in the room. Hot, too. And yet knowing Phil is so close and that Dan can never have him is wholly dissatisfying. 

As he cleans his cum-splattered stomach with a flimsy tissue, he finds himself wishing for more.

//

**27th Apr** / Clearwater, FL / Ruth Eckerd Hall

Dan cries at the end of their Clearwater show.

His shoulder is pressed up against Phil’s when the fireworks go off. They crackle, bright and colorful, joined by confetti fluttering down towards the stage. That same adrenaline rush thrums through his veins, like it always does when he hears the screams echo from the crowd, just for them.

And then the signs start to lift. 

One by one, sheets of paper rise from the shadowed mass of people in the crowd until he’s scanning over a shifting sea of white.

“Phil,” he says, voice hushed, though it’s easily picked up by his stage mic. “Look.” 

“This is the most fun we’ve ever had,” Phil reads out, and after a beat, Dan recognizes the phrase. The first PINOF, the phrase he’d uttered right before Phil tackled him to the carpet in a flurry of easy giggles and tight hugs. Oh god. He feels too much right now to be able to handle memories from 2009. He’s blinking back tears, shooting Phil a watery smile. 

Phil nudges their shoulders together and, to Dan’s relief, speaks for the both of them. “Thank you all so much,” he states, sincerity seeping into his words. “Really, all I- we. All  _ we  _ ever wanted was to make people happy, because we have so much fun doing this, and knowing you’re all having fun is....reassuring. So, again, thank you all so much.”

Swallowing, Dan takes a step back. That’s their cue. “Thank you guys for coming!” he shouts, as is standard for every show, and waves bouncily as he tugs open the large door that leads backstage. “And we’ll see you all back on the internet!”

The door closes with a gentle hiss but does nothing to block out the excited screams from the audience. Dan lets the tears fall, then, now that he’s out of sight and his mic has been turned off. They roll down his dimpled cheeks, and he’s smiling, sure, but he’s so fucking emotional that crying and smiling seems almost acceptable. 

“Hey,” Phil murmurs. He lifts his hand, lets it hover for a moment, then finally cards his long fingers through Dan’s sweat-damp curls. “You alright?”

Dan laughs shakily, leaning into the touch. “Mh. Yeah. Just a whole fucking shittone of emotions all at once. M’fine.” He doesn’t resist when Phil sets a hand on his shoulder and guides him into a gentle hug. Phil is warm, so warm. He smells good, like the cologne Dan has grown to love and a bit of something else; a bit like home. “Just remembering 2009,” he mumbles against the shiny material of Phil’s costume.

“You always act like sarcastic, emotionless one of the two of us,” he hears Phil whisper into his hair. “But really, you’re just a ridiculously soppy individual. Aren’t you?”

“Stop exposing my secrets, Lester,” Dan teases. He lets himself sink into Phil’s arms and sniffles. 

“Dork. Let’s go get changed, okay?”

Reluctantly, Dan peels himself away from Phil and wipes at his tear-rimmed eyes, attempting to blink the wetness away. “Think I agree with them,” he mutters, a bit hesitant to talk when his voice is so uneven.

“Hm?” 

Dan averts his gaze, a small smile spreading across his face. “I agree with the fans, I mean. Because, like. This is _actually_ the most fun I’ve ever had.” 

Phil grins. “See? I was right. You’re a sop,” he jokes, then sets a careful hand on Dan’s shoulder, expression softening. “Touring with my best friend is the most fun I’ve ever had, too. Just so you know.”

“I know.”

(A while later, he’s calmed down enough that a quick selfie for twitter isn’t out of the question. He types the caption with shaky fingers; 

“at the end of our show tonight the ENTIRE audience stood up holding these signs!”

The fans are unaware that right after he clicks his phone off, Phil rises up on the balls of his feet just to press a fleeting kiss against Dan’s forehead.)


	2. georgia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn, daniel.  
> special thanks to kel for editing again.

**28th Apr** / Atlanta GA

The morning sunlight is accompanied by Phil’s warm breath against the back of his neck, and as Dan gradually gains consciousness, he notes that he’s never been quite this comfortable. Phil’s still sleeping, evident by the arm slung over the curve of Dan’s waist. He wouldn’t do that if he were awake, of course. Dan knows that. Sleeping Phil, though, certainly likes his cuddles, and Dan is only too happy to accommodate his interests.

He only lets it happen for Phil’s comfort. Definitely not because his heart soars every time he feels fingertips skate just beneath the hem of his shirt.

A soft, unintelligible mumble comes from just behind him and he doesn’t move, stays stock-still as Phil yawns, lazily removes his arm from Dan’s waist, and rolls out of bed. Dan can’t see him and doesn’t dare to turn his head in case Phil notices he’s awake.

Yet he can almost imagine the sight he’d be met with if he craned his neck backwards; Phil’s glasses would be crooked on the bridge of his nose, the eyes behind them a soft green-blue, half lidded, weighed down by sleep. The waistband of his pajama bottoms would ride low on his sharp hip bones, causing the cuffs to drag past Phil’s heels. And best of all, Dan thinks, is the visible stubble that would evenly dot Phil’s defined chin.

Fuck.

The fact that he can recall every single detail of Phil’s godlike body just proves how much he stares. Heart eyes Howell is definitely a thing, and Dan definitely needs to work on some goddamn self control if he’s going to make it til the end of June.

Quiet footsteps fade towards the hallway, indicating that Phil has left the room. Dan hears a cheery “Good morning!” a few seconds later. He can’t prevent the grin that spreads across his face-- Phil’s happiness is fucking contagious.

He slips from the warm cocoon of Phil’s duvet and shuffles towards the tour bus’ almost-useless kitchen to fix himself a bowl of cereal.

Martyn and Cornelia are already up, talking animatedly over steaming cups of coffee. (What is with the Lester clan and waking up early? Dan doesn’t get it.) Cornelia catches sight of Dan and gives him a friendly little wave. “You’re up early for once!” she exclaims, shocked as if she’s just witnessed the second coming of Christ.

“I’m only up because I’m scared Phil will eat all my cereal before I even get the chance,” he says, just loud enough for Phil to hear from across the room.

“Excuse me!” comes Phil’s indignant reply. “Are you falsely accusing me of stealing your cereal again? Because that’s just- that’s a ridiculous idea if I ever heard one,”

“Is it,” says Dan, peeking around the wall to glance into the kitchen, where he finds Phil messily stuffing a handful of dry cereal into his open mouth. Dan shoots him a deadpan stare. “Phillip Michael Lester. That looks an awful lot like my cereal.”

“Dunno wha’ y’re talkin’ ‘bout,” Phil mumbles, cheeks stuffed with frosted shreddies and fingers dusted with crumbs.

Dan snatches the cereal box right out of Phil’s greedy little hands and starts preparing himself a bowl with whatever’s left. He pretends to be mad, a scowl set on his face until Phil’s wide, sleepy grin breaks his composure. “Damn you,” he mutters fondly, gesturing to the half-full bowl in front of him. “Look at what you’ve left me with! I’m going to have to ration this just so it lasts through our morning anime marathon.”

“Actually,” Phil muses thoughtfully, passing Dan a jug of milk, “I was thinking we could take a break from anime and try for a couple episodes of The Walking Dead?”

Dan raises an eyebrow as he carefully pours the milk into his cereal bowl. “What, decided to change things up? What’s wrong with cute anime boys in tiny speedos?” He has to admit, he’s a little disappointed he doesn’t get to start his day off by staring hungrily at Haru’s glistening wet abs. And listen. If he’s gotten off to yaoi hentai once or twice, it’s only because Haru reminds him of Phil. (His Haru pillow may or may not have a cum stain on it. Whatever.)

“Because we’re going to be in Atlanta! Original setting of the iconic zom-pocalypse series, ‘The Walking Dead’, which happened to start in 2010, if you were curious,” Phil exclaims, his hands gesturing expressively in front of him like they always do when he’s passionate about something. Dan gives an affectionate eye roll. He knows for a fact that Phil probably spent an hour last night on the Walking Dead wiki page.

“Yeah, I get it, you’re a massive nerd. Go set up Netflix while I make myself a cup of tea.”

“Excuse me, that’s not very American of you,” Phil jokes. “No tea allowed. Only Mountain Dews and those Slurpee things Martyn forced me to try when we were in Florida.”

“Says the person who can’t even do an American accent without offending half the population.”

Phil tips an imaginary cowboy hat; “Howdy, folks.”

Dan finds it impossible to suppress an obnoxious giggle, the sound bursting out almost as soon as he hears Phil’s horrendous accent. “Oh my god. Fucking spork. Go, leave, right now.” Phil chuckles, but obliges, giving Dan a two fingered salute before turning away.

The kitchen is narrow; Phil has to squeeze past Dan to head towards the bedroom, and for a brief moment, Dan can feel the older man’s firm chest against his back. His breath catches in his throat, hands clutching the ceramic bowl so tightly he’s surprised it doesn’t break.

“Personal space!” he yells, mortified when his voice verges on cracking.

“You cuddle me in your sleep!” Phil retorts. Dan shuts up immediately and decides that he hates Phil Lester. (That decision lasts about four seconds. Dan’s record is six.)

-

They arrive in Atlanta at approximately three thirty. Dan’s lying on his stomach, lazily tapping out a text to their tour guide to request some more information about the venue they’ll be performing at tonight. Her response is that it has ‘very aesthetic lighting’. (Damn, Laura knows exactly how to pander to him.)

“Hey, you’re not even paying attention to the show!” Phil complains, knocking a sock-clad heel against the back of Dan’s thigh.

Dan flicks his eyes back up to the screen just in time to watch a bullet spiral directly through the skull of a rotting corpse. “Sorry,” he murmurs distractedly. “Checking with Laura to make sure everything’s in order.”

“Relax. She knows what she’s doing. You don’t have to stress over it.”

“I’m not stressing,” he argues, then flushes slightly when Phil takes a quick glance at his phone screen.

“You’ve sent eight consecutive texts about the meet and greet _alone_. I don’t even want to see the other ones Laura’s had to respond to.”

Dan nestles his face into the elbow of his sweatshirt and huffs out a sigh. Phil’s carefree nature is enviable. An impulsive need for perfection resides somewhere deep inside Dan, the part that won’t let him upload a YouTube video unless he’s edited and re-edited (and then edited one more time just to make sure), unless he’s received Phil’s opinion, unless he’s watched it backwards and forwards twelve times to weed out mistakes. (If he doesn’t hate the sound of his own voice after all that, the video gets uploaded.)

“Want this to go well,” he mumbles into the soft fabric.

“Why are you suddenly so worried?” Phil coaxes, concern seeping into his tone. “You’ve been fine the last couple of days. The shows have gone perfectly-- excluding the fact that I fell off the stage that first time.”

Dan shrugs. He doesn’t quite have an answer. “I just get like this. You know that.”

The right side of the mattress creaks in protest as Phil flops onto his stomach right next to Dan with a clean pillow slotted beneath his chin. He reaches over and gently prys Dan’s phone out of his hands. Dan lets him. “Less worrying, more zombies. Yeah?”

“I think that’s like, the opposite of what you're supposed want during an apocalypse,” he points out, but slowly relaxes into the mattress and lets the show capture his attention once more. He can feel the worry ebb away with each thoughtful comment Phil makes about what’s onscreen; “That zombie looks like you in the morning.” Dan can only giggle and roll his eyes, a weak attempt to hide how fond he is of the older man’s attempts to cheer him up.

Thank God he's got Phil to look after his sorry arse.

-

They shower right before they fall asleep that night. Dan’s hair is still wet, dripping down his neck and dampening the pillow beneath his head when he leans back into it. He watches Phil cross the room and shake his fringe out in a dog-like fashion, because apparently he's an absolute fucking dork and just does things like that.

“Watch it,” Dan laughs tiredly when a water droplet hits his cheek. “Towel your hair off like a normal person, you spoon,”

Once Phil’s mane is moderately dried off, he easily rolls into bed beside Dan’s tall frame and shoves his face directly into a fluffy pillow, letting out a tired, exaggerated groan. Dan tries very hard not to interpret it in a sexual manner. (He fails.)

“Exhausted?” Dan asks, reaching over to press a hand to Phil’s spine beneath the thick duvet.

“Mhm,” comes Phil’s muffled reply. Dan can feel his chest get warm when the older man turns his head and looks at him with those gorgeous, half lidded eyes.

“Me too. Not used to having, like. Actual plans every day. I almost miss my five hour tumblr binges and sleeping past 12PM.” He pauses, then follows with, “I think I like this a little better, though. Even if it is blinking exhausting.”

“Mhm,” Phil repeats, too tired, evidently, to form a complete sentence. Dan forgives him. His voice sounds pleasantly rough when he's sleepy, and just that little sound of affirmation has Dan’s head spinning.

He really needs to work on his infatuation with Phil, he reminds himself, removing his hand from the small of Phil’s back. Seems a tad bit unhealthy to be so easily affected by one person.

Eh. Maybe he'll worry about it later. Maybe not. (Probably not.)

He meets Phil’s eyes just as they fall shut. A stretch of silence follows, then gentle, soothing snores fall from Phil’s slightly parted lips. “Goodnight,” Dan whispers with the knowledge that Phil probably can't hear him. He turns over to click the bedside lamp off, bathing the room in darkness, save the faint glow of Dan’s laptop charger.

Darkness used to terrify him. He remembers having a night light until he was sixteen, only getting rid of it because his mum claimed he was too old to still use such a silly thing.

A night light does seem rather silly, now. After all, Dan remembers, smiling cheekily to himself, he's got the fucking sun in bed right next to him.

//

 **29th Apr** / Atlanta, GA / The Fox Theatre

“I'm going to die.”

The bus rocks unpredictably back and forth, a natural reaction to random potholes and speedbumps; the large bus wheels can only cushion so much of the impact.

Phil looks like he's about to puke.

“You're not going to die,” Dan assures him with barely concealed amusement, watching as Phil dizzily presses his forehead against the bus window.

“That milkshake was-” Phil breathes out, then pauses to clutch at his stomach. “Was not a good idea.”

The older man’s eyebrows are furrowed in clear discomfort, and Dan suddenly feels a pang of sympathy for how miserable Phil must be. “I told you, anything with frickin’ _liquid_ _nitrogen_ in the name isn't going to sit well with your stomach. We both know you get travelsick,” he reminds gently. Phil’s lip juts out in a childish pout.

“It tasted good!” he protests weakly, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes and heaving out a distressed sigh. “How can something taste so right and yet feel so wrong?”

Dan pats the space beside him on the small couch. It's almost instinctive to care for Phil in situations like these. The older man has done the same for him countless times-- it's only fair. “C’mere,” he urges without without so much as a second thought. “Let me help.”

It's a miracle that Phil manages to drag himself out of his chair, but soon enough he's ambling forward and settling himself against the couch cushions beside Dan. The position makes it easy for Dan to then guide Phil so that his head is nestled comfortably atop Dan’s thighs. He has to admit, he doesn't really know what he's doing. All he knows is that the plane ride to Japan was only managed by careful touches to Phil’s fringe; the action had seemed to simultaneously calm Phil down and put him to sleep for the rest of the flight.

So that's what Dan does now. One hand cradles the back of Phil’s skull while the other tangles in his hair, long pianist's fingers carding through sleek black fringe. Phil's ginger roots are showing through, he notices with a slight smile. (Sometimes he wishes he could see Phil in all his highlighter-orange haired glory.)

“Time for some new hair dye, hm?” Dan teases quietly, attempting to dispel any awkwardness that might result from them being so physically close.

“Don't remind me,” Phil groans. He presses his face into Dan’s knee, squeezing his eyes shut. A moment passes. Then Phil slowly cracks open an eyelid, peering skeptically up at Dan as if he's only just now noticed that his head is inches from Dan’s crotch. (Dan is trying really hard not to think about it because the last thing he needs is to pop a boner against Phil’s cheek.)

“Wait a minute,” he mumbles, mildly disoriented. “What exactly… what are you doing?”

Flustered by the blunt question, Dan clears his throat and offers a vague shrug. “I'm, I'm, um. I’m helping you to not feel like complete shit? I think?” He rubs the pads of his fingers into Phil’s scalp, eliciting a quiet, pleased noise from his friend.

“You're helping, yeah. That's nice. Keep doing that. I'll just lay right here and let you.”

“Lazy motherfluffer. Making me do all the work. You're appalling,” Dan complains, secretly enjoying the way Phil nuzzles subconsciously into the denim of his jeans.

“I'm ‘n angel.” Phil mumbles. “You adore me.”

“Yeah, and I have no idea why. Someone save me from this hell.”

-

While Phil is fast asleep on his lap, Dan politely requests they stay at a hotel tonight due to Phil’s unbearable, milkshake-induced stomach ache. “I don't want him puking on me when I'm trying to sleep,” he tells Martyn, not even considering the option that they could, y’know. Sleep in separate rooms. Like normal friends usually do. Whatever.

Thankfully, Martyn just gives him a knowing look and a curt nod. “Done. And I'm assuming you'll only need one queen sized bed?” he questions, lips curling up into a slight grin.

Dan glances down. Phil’s mouth is parted, even breaths puffing out against Dan’s knee in the most adorable way. “Yeah,” he decides. “One works fine.”

-

Dan's had just about enough memes for today. Sure, maybe he's practically a meme himself, but during TATINOF, he can't seem to escape his role as walking, breathing internet joke. (He is asked how not to procrastinate twice just because the audience loves to see him laugh nervously and make a panicky decision whether to answer the question sarcastically or genuinely.)

(Dan usually opts for the sarcastic answer since giving genuine advice is comparable to the blind leading the blind. He and his subscribers are one in the same; none of them have their shit together.)

John Cena makes an appearance during the show, as does his personal hero, Rick Astley, and by the time he makes his way into the hotel lobby, he's ready for a nap.

Which is why he's entirely unprepared for the loud, jarring, “Damn, Daniel!” from the guy behind the check in desk when he takes a look at Dan’s passport. The man looks oddly proud of himself, but Dan stays silent, seriously questioning whether the situation is actually happening. Phil snickers behind him.

“Um,” Dan says, slowly withdrawing his passport from the counter.

“I just saw that video this morning! Have you seen it? It's so funny! And your name’s Daniel, so you must get it a lot.”

Sucking in a breath through his teeth, Dan offers the man a forced smile. “You honestly have no idea.”

They make it halfway to the elevator before Phil loses it, breaking into a fit of giggles as he clutches his suitcase in his hands. “Oh my god,” he chokes out breathlessly. “Your face was so priceless- you looked dead inside for a good minute.” Dan shoots him a deadpan stare, much like the one given to the hotel clerk moments earlier.

“I _am_ dead inside. The internet has officially slaughtered my soul,” he replies in a monotonous voice. Pressing his forefinger against the elevator button, he rubs his eyes tiredly until patterns surface behind the lids, trying to comprehend how someone could be _that_ behind on an internet trend.

“He's on like, a Facebook mum level of coolness.” Phil jokes.

“I disagree,” Dan says, stepping into the elevator behind the older man. “He’s a tier below that. Facebook dad.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because only a facebook dad would consider themselves cool enough to try to use a meme in real life.”

The elevator dings, then lurches to a stop as they reach the third floor. Dan notices a smirk lifting the corners of Phil’s lips, slowly growing even as they roll their suitcases out into the carpeted hallway. “What?” he demands, confused. “What’s so funny?”

Phil grins. “You’re basically a facebook dad.”

Throwing his hands up in surrender, Dan turns on his heel and irritatedly stalks off towards their hotel room with full knowledge that Phil has the keycard in his pocket. “I’m done!” he exclaims.

“Hey, Dan?” Phil calls, sounding too smug for Dan’s liking.

“What now, Lester?”

“Room’s the other way.”

Well. So much for his dramatic exit.


	3. pennsylvania.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> general filler chapter bc the new york chapter is gonna be a monster to complete, good lord (special thanks to keely, my baby, my bro, my editor through thick and thin)

**1st May** / Reading, PA / Santander Performing Arts Center

Dan’s morning starts with the sheer, disoriented panic. 

He’s in the middle of a particularly lovely dream. They’re in Japan again, sunlight filtering through the shell-pink cherry blossoms as Dan swings his legs back and forth beneath the park bench. Sounds are muted and the symbols adorning each street sign dance inconsistently like the petals in the wind; Dan knows it’s a dream. He appreciates it nonetheless because he misses Japan, the honeymoon-like surreality of being in his favorite country with his favorite person. 

The bench is wide, but Phil sits so close to him their thighs press together, warmth encasing Dan’s whole being like a soft, fuzzy blanket. (He remembers, then, that he’s in a hotel bed, currently beneath three whole soft, fuzzy blankets, and his dream isn’t completely to blame.)

“Dan, love,” dream Phil says, his words betraying a fondness that could only be conjured up by Dan’s wishful imagination. 

“Yeah?”

There’s a palm against his cheek, gentle, careful. It almost seems real. (Fuck, does Dan wish it was.) “Wake up,” Phil murmurs. Dan’s brows furrow. The petals swirling around them go still, unmoving as they hover above the grass. “Wake up,” Phil repeats, sounding considerably less fond and a whole lot more concerned. “I’m serious, Dan, please wake up. It’s important.”

Dan is bodily ripped away from his perfect dream; the trees crumble, the pale blue sky shatters. All at once, he finds himself beneath a mess of gangly limbs and cotton Captain America pajamas, with Phil shaking his shoulders like his life depends on it. Dan is thrown into panic mode almost instantaneously. 

“Dan! Dan,” Phil says once he notices Dan’s awake, breathless.

“Fucking Christ, what’s wrong?” Dan rushes out. His eyes dart around the room, heart thumping erratically against his ribcage. (Why would Phil be waking him up so frantically?) “Is there a fire? Did someone break in? What’s-”

“The cereal of the day was  _ plain cornflakes _ ! Can you believe that? These people had the audacity to list  _ Cereal of the Day _ on their menus and get me all excited, and it’s just cornflakes!” 

Dan blinks dazedly back at him. What the fuck. What the fuck even is his life. “Phil,” he deadpans. “I thought there was an  _ actual  _ blinking emergency. You can’t just-”

“This  _ is  _ an actual emergency.”

The tension in Dan’s body exits with a defeated groan, body deflating into the mattress like a sad, emotionally exhausted balloon. He lazily rolls over onto his stomach and buries his face into a bundle of nice-smelling sheets, mumbling something that sounds a whole lot like, “Fuck off or I will literally punch you.” Phil doesn’t seem too put off by the statement, as when Dan blinks his eyes open a second time, he’s met with Phil’s dumb, grinning face peering down at him. 

“You wouldn’t punch a guy with glasses, would you?”

Dan whines and promptly shoves his face back into the blankets. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with Phil’s attractiveness right now. 

Especially not with the morning wood straining uncomfortably against his thigh. 

-

That morning, Phil showers first, since Dan is still dazed and recovering from the sudden panicked wake up, and Dan, as usual, waits outside the bathroom door with his fingers curled around a coffee cup. He’d discovered the hotel room had its own built in coffee maker with a whole rack of flavors, (Caramel macchiato? Hazelnut? Coconut? Flipping  _ golden french toast  _ ?) and while Phil waited for the water to heat up, Dan spent a good ten minutes sifting through the little flavor packets until he managed to decide on one. Coffee isn’t even his favorite drink, but when it tastes like a waffle cone, Dan doesn’t find himself missing tea all that much. 

Leaning against the wall next to the bathroom door, Dan hears the clinking of metal as the shower curtain is pulled open, the dull clattering of bottles hitting the floor, and a soft, muffled curse. Dan’s lips curve up into a tired smile. Oh, Phil. 

Dan finds the older man’s clumsiness endearing, in all honesty. Just another reason why Phil’s a goddamn precious angel bean. He tips the styrofoam cup against his chapped lips and takes a tentative sip (Christ on a bike, it’s  _ hot _ ), messing with his phone with his free hand as he waits. Lurking through Tumblr is a favorite pastime of his-- he scrolls, he sees, he moves on. He’s halfway through a Tumblr post that’s trying to estimate Phil’s cock size (what? Dan’s curious too) when there’s a sudden, soft moan from behind the shower door.

Dan’s whole body grows warm, and not just from the coffee he’s drinking. Another moan follows the second, this time marginally louder and breathier.  _ Oh _ . Oh. Oh, fucking hell, Phil is jerking off, probably hoping that the continuous spray of water will overpower his pleasured sounds. 

No such luck.

Every wet slap of skin, every needy grunt, Dan can hear with astounding clarity as it echoes off the hotel shower’s glass walls. Oh god. He can feel his cock start stirring in the confines of his boxers and he flushes in embarrassment. He hates Phil right now, honestly, and his stupid, sultry, hoarse moans. A whine threatens to leave his lips, but he quells it by squeezing the top of his thigh and taking a sip of scalding hot coffee. Which doesn’t help. Because when Phil groans again, (“Ah- ah,  _ yes _ ”) he finds himself nearly choking on the burning drink.   
  
Spluttering, Dan manages to swallow, and with his palm comfortably hot from having held a cup of burning coffee, he presses it against the thin material of his cotton briefs. The heat from his hand radiates straight through to the bulge of his cock, only making his problem worse. The fabric is growing damp with steadily leaking precum, and this,  _ this  _ is mortifying. Why does Phil’s stupid morning wank have him so hot and bothered?   
  
The next time Phil moans, Dan’s got a hand in his pants, wrapped tightly around his length as he furiously jerks off. His long, slender fingers are pressing in all the sensitive spots on his shaft, sliding along the hot, swollen, precum coated flesh. His hips slam up into his fist, frustrated grunts ripping from his chest, barely audible because he knows Phil will probably flip if he hears him masturbating. 

His voice is soft but positively wrecked when he cums; one hand clutches his coffee cup as his cock spills all over his fist as he strokes himself hastily through his orgasm. His eyes are squeezed shut and he’s breathless, panting, chest heaving with the strain of a powerful orgasm. 

When he does catch his breath, he huffs out a sigh and lets his hand fall from the softening curve of his dick. “I am literal trash,” he mumbles to himself. 

That’s when he realizes the water isn’t running anymore. 

Hurriedly, he tucks himself back into his briefs, just in time for Phil to walk out with a towel hung low on his hips. Dan hopes his face isn’t as red as it feels. Phil, though, just steps right past him and says, “Shower’s yours!” in the cheeriness that seems unusual for so early in the morning.

Something like shame bubbles up in Dan’s stomach as he pushes himself up, downs the rest of his coffee, and enters the steam-filled bathroom to wash away his mistake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (if you liked the porn, maybe check out cockwhoredan on tumbr? :D )


	4. new york

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when i said i would update this semi-weekly?  
> ok hear me out if this was the secret account of dan howell, he'd probably also procrastinate on shit, so all this does is support everyone's conspiracy theory that i'm actually dan howell in disguise  
> lmao bitch i might be :D  
> anyways, pls enjoy this chapter - there's more new york stuff to come, but the tatinof shows took place in massachusetts at that time, so they'll be in the masachussets chapter, if that makes any sense.  
> thank you all for the kind comments you've been leaving - it was a lovely thing to come back to and i appreciate you all. <3  
> there's a lowkey panic attack at the end so just be warned if that's a trigger for you

 

**2nd May** / New York, NY / The Beacon Theatre

There’s something about New York that reminds Dan of London. Of home. 

Towering skyscrapers, cluttered streets; busy shops; too-expensive restaurants with unpronounceable names, the faint smell of food wafting through the air with petrol fumes from passing cars, and the way he closes his grip tightly around Phil’s shirt sleeve so that he doesn’t lose him in the crowds. 

While Dan had suggested a lazy day in their hotel room and a simple dinner down in the lobby, Phil opts for sightseeing instead. 

Dan’s only toured New York once before, in 2013, when they were sent out by Fuse; it was a work trip, one that Dan will remember solely because they were privileged enough to meet Fall Out Boy. But with an intense, lingering guilt from 2012 and the excitement from meeting his idols, Dan was too much of an emotional wreck to appreciate any of the scenery, so. He supposes that maybe a little sightseeing isn’t the  _ worst  _ idea Phil’s ever had. 

That doesn’t stop Dan from arguing, because he lives for domestic bickering. Thrives on it.

“Literally all the buildings look the same, Phillip. We can stare at a bunch of skyscrapers back home. London has plenty to choose from.”

Phil sticks his tongue out at Dan, like the actual child he is. “Don’t be a downer. Enjoy your quality Phil time.” 

Dan snorts. It’s all too easy to give in, and he rolls his eyes, finally relenting. “Alright, alright,” he says, as if there was any chance he’d decline the offer. “I’ll go.” 

The way Phil grins at him afterwards is well worth all the horrendous walking he’s about to endure.

-

The Metropolitan Museum of Art is first on their list, if only because Dan has a special interest in design and aesthetics. Phil holds Dan’s jacket (like a proper boyfriend would, if, you know, they  _ were  _ boyfriends) while he roams the labyrinthine corridors and allows himself to get lost in the gorgeous artwork. He drags Phil over to a small, abstract painting - a mix of smeared greys and pale blues, like puddles after a rainstorm, with just a hint of warm light shining through the canvas. 

“Reminds me of London, since it’s always all goddamn rainy and depressing,” he explains, though his Shakespearean-loving, poetic arse reminds him that it could also represent how Phil is the only warmth in his otherwise colorless life. Isn’t he fucking pretentious. “Pretty, don’t you think?”

“Gorgeous,” Phil responds instantly, but when Dan glances back, Phil is looking right at him. Not the painting.

Dan’s heart flutters embarrassingly before he shoves away his dumb hopes and moves on to the next painting, Phil by his side. He reminds himself that this isn't a Hallmark movie and he isn't the underdog who finally gets the guy - he's the pining best friend in the comedic tragedy of his life, the painfully relatable dork who stares at Phil instead of the masterpieces around him. 

It's so cliche, but since when has Dan ever been original? 

-

Their half-arsed sightseeing attempt ends with a cheeky visit to Starbucks and an impromptu fan meeting next to their booth. There aren’t any selfies taken (thank God, Dan’s hair is an absolute disaster), but as the two girls talk enthusiastically, adrenaline-fueled and speeding through sentences they’ve probably wanted Dan and Phil to hear for ages, Dan catches a glimpse of the shorter one’s phone screen. Phanart. An innocent kiss, Dan’s arms slung over Phil’s shoulders, smiling contentedly. It makes something tighten in Dan’s chest, and he fights the urge to point it out. 

Of course they’re shippers - which of their fans  _ aren’t,  _ for Christ’s sake?

Then Dan pauses. Something about that doesn’t sit right in his chest. He’s reminded of the time their landlord asked them when they’d started dating. He remembers being mistaken for newlyweds in Japan, he recalls the way Louise had instantly looked towards Dan when Phil admitted that he’d ‘like to settle down sometime soon.’ It occurs to him, suddenly, that his life doesn’t make any fucking sense. Millions of people see he and Phil as a couple, and Phil’s just there, sitting across from him with this stupid fucking grin,  _ oblivious _ to it all, oblivious to the way Dan looks at him (Heart Eyes Howell isn’t exactly subtle, judging by the countless gifs and analyses of his longing glances, so, like, is Phil blind or something? Does he need a new prescription to see how much Dan wants them to be together, or hell, how much they already look like they’re together?)

God. Fuck. He needs to get himself together. These lovely girls deserve his attention, at least, and he hasn’t even been giving them that. Swallowing hard, he curves his lips up into a careful, practiced smile and listens to one of the fans gush about how much she adores Phil. Dan barks out a laugh.

“You can be Phil Trash number two. I’ve already taken the number one spot,” he announces proudly. Phil bumps their ankles together under the table, grinning, and the momentary contact has Dan’s stomach in knots. “Sorry. First come, first serve.”

Phil’s smile stays in place until he realizes that oh my God, they’re supposed to be at the venue like,  _ five minutes ago _ . Dan curses under his breath, apologizes hastily to the two girls, and follows Phil out of the coffee shop. 

-

“Phillip Michael Lester,” Dan shouts brattily from his hotel bed, long since changed out of his stage clothes. Clad in only his boxers and a tshirt, limbs sprawled out every which way, he stares petulantly at his laptop screen. “I am on three percent battery and I can’t find my flipping charger.” Or, alternatively, he’s on three percent battery and he’s using it as an excuse to get Phil’s attention. 

Dan glances up just as Phil pokes his head out from the bathroom. “Have you actually looked, or are you just laying there waiting for me to get it like your personal maid or something?”

Damn. Phil’s onto him. Though Dan supposes after all these years, it’s no surprise that they know each other so well. Having such a close friendship is a good thing, sure, but awfully inconvenient when Dan’s trying to get his way. He groans sulkily and rolls onto his back, staring at the textured ceiling. 

“I can’t  _ find  _ it,” Dan whines, because he’s got the maturity and patience of a fucking toddler right now, and he’s  _ tired _ . “Phil, I  _ need  _ it.”

“I’m taking my contacts out. I’m busy, you knob.”

“Don’t call me a knob, knob,” Dan counters creatively. 

“If  _ I’m  _ a knob, maybe you’re rubbing off on me.”

_ I wish,  _ Dan thinks, except his mouth is moving and sound is coming out and oh, he’s doing that thing where he thinks out loud, isn’t he? Fan-fucking-tastic. He watches, slightly flustered, as Phil’s mouth quirks up into this strange sort of smile that Dan can’t place. 

“That’s a bit dirty,” he teases accusingly, like he  _ knows  _ what he does to Dan, that stupid, pretty bastard. Dan wants to smack him. 

“Shut up,” he mutters, then, with irritation, notes that his computer has dropped to two percent. Why does the world hate him? He doesn’t deserve this. “I’m a high maintenance bitch, Phil. Get me my charger or I’ll probably die.”

Phil ends up lazily chucking him the bundle of wire from across the room, but being Phil, of course, he misses and ends up knocking over basically everything on the nightstand, including a very expensive looking lamp. Dan’s awful hyena laugh makes an appearance; he cackles, clutching his stomach until he can’t breathe because he’s just the right kind of tired that everything’s funny, and Phil is smiling fondly despite himself. 

“You’re an ass,” Phil claims, trying to put everything back where it was before he absolutely  _ demolished  _ it.

“You’re stuck with me,” Dan retorts. “Deal with it.”

He thinks about how Phil’s not really stuck with him. How the lease to their shared flat isn’t permanent, how Phil is rapidly approaching thirty and he’ll want a family soon, won’t he?

Dan exhales audibly and wills the thoughts away, almost as soon as they’ve appeared. 

“You’re lucky I put up with you,” Phil says, and yes, he’s obviously joking, but part of Dan agrees with him. 

//

**3rd May** / New York, NY / The Beacon Theatre

They sleep in late, partly because the warmth of the hotel beds is too addictive to part with, and partly because Phil insists they have a late night marathon of Hell’s Kitchen. (Phil ends up passing out at two thirty in the morning, face smushed adorably into his pillow, somehow lulled to sleep by Gordon Ramsay’s creative insults. Dumbarse. Dan hates that he loves him so much.)

Room service arrives that afternoon with the breakfast Phil apparently ordered, and Dan is still curled up pathetically in his mass of blankets, his hair sticking up at odd angles. He burrows further into his little nest, pillow clutched to his chest, and yawns. (The pillow certainly isn’t compensation for not having Phil in his bed.) 

“Breakfast is served,” Phil claims, shutting the door behind him after he’s taken the tray of food. 

“Mm,” Dan mumbles. His voice is soft, sleepy, and his eyebrows knit together as he lets out a particularly loud yawn. “What’d y’get me?” Dan’s sure he’s taking Phil for granted, right now, automatically assuming that Phil took the initiative to order breakfast for him. Dan reminds himself to thank him later.

“Figured I couldn’t go wrong with some cinnamon-apple waffles.”

God, Dan’s already salivating at the thought. That’s the problem with sleeping in late; he wakes up far too hungry. Sitting up just enough to eat, Dan grabs the plate and starts hastily cutting into the waffles with his fork, nearly groaning at how delicious he knows it’s going to be. “Mm. Fuck. Smells good,” he mumbles, mostly to himself.

Phil opens his mouth, as if to agree, then closes it with an adorably confused look on his face. “I can’t…” he starts, leaning in closer to his own stack of pancakes. “Oh my god,  _ Dan _ , I can’t smell it. I can’t smell anything? What even - did I lose my sense of smell? Wait,  _ can  _ you lose your -”

_ This guy, _ Dan thinks.  _ This fucking guy.  _

Interrupting Phil’s panicked mess of words, Dan laughs, his smile betraying just the slightest hint of fondness. “Hey, Phil? Breaking news: you’re absolutely fucking ridiculous,” he announces, but Phil’s already tapping frantically at his phone, probably going on another Google binge because he’s a literal child. 

“You know what’s ridiculous? Losing your sense of smell,” Phil retaliates, clearly frustrated. 

Dan pushes his plate aside and rolls onto his stomach so he can face Phil properly, wedging his pillow underneath his crossed forearms to help prop himself up. “Calm down, Philly,” he teases. “Finish your pancakes before they get cold. I’m sure your lovely nose will fix itself eventually, and I’m sure you’re not, like, dying, despite what the website’s going to tell you.” (He doesn’t want Phil getting sucked into WebMD again; the last time that happened, Phil convinced himself that he had a terminal illness. Dan, of course, had whacked him good naturedly in the shoulder and scolded him for being a twat.)

“This says I have something called  _ anosmia _ ,” Phil says. The unfamiliar word is clumsily pronounced, but he sounds thoughtful, ignoring Dan’s’ request completely. (Like Dan said. Twat.) “It says that -”

Dan stretches his arm behind him and grabs at one of the nice, soft hotel pillows, then lobs it purposely in Phil’s direction. He grins, satisfied when it hits him square in the face. Phil lets out an undignified noise, shoving the pillow off onto the floor and narrowing his eyes at Dan’s smug expression. Dan knows him, though, and the slight crinkle at the corners of those gorgeous eyes means he isn’t really aggravated, not at all.

“Oi. Eat your blinking pancakes,” Dan repeats, mouth stretched into an innocent smile. “Don’t diagnose yourself with diseases nobody’s ever heard of, you spoon.”

Phil does eat his pancakes eventually, only after he’s tweeted about his poor nose and complained for twenty more minutes. Dan counts it as a small victory nonetheless.

-

Dan hates yelling.   
  
It might seem odd, given how loud he is in his videos, outspoken and talking with a newfound confidence, an increased volume. Yelling, though, makes something uncomfortable twist in Dan’s gut, makes his skin itch and his palms sweat, breaths go shallow until everything’s quiet and calm again. He doesn’t remember when raised voices started making him uneasy. (He thinks maybe it was when his dad stopped liking him all that much.)   
  
Right now, he's on his way back to the hotel, waiting for the suffocating New York traffic to clear. Seated in the back of a taxi cab, Dan props his elbow up on the armrest and gazes out the window. Phil isn’t with him, and he notices that it feels..  _ odd _ . They’re always together - conjoined at the hip, Louise likes to say. Maybe Dan’s a little too dependent, because the emptiness of the seat beside him shouldn't bother him as much as it does.   
  
He shakes the thought away, and that’s when he notices that the cab is taking a little.. Detour? (Can Dan even call it that?) They’re driving backwards on a one way street, and while Dan isn’t well versed in American traffic laws, he’s positive that maybe this isn’t the safest option here. Biting his lip, he debates whether to speak up; he’s never liked conflict.

A car is visible down the road, though, approaching them at a pace quick enough that Dan starts to worry. “Um, excuse me,” he starts, feeling incredibly awkward as he turns toward the cab driver. “Aren’t we - aren’t we going the opposite way we’re, er, supposed to?”   
  
“Will you _ shut up _ !” the man shouts aggravatedly, too loud, _ too loud _ , and Dan’s instantly recoiling, pressing himself back into his seat and sucking in a shaky breath since the air has been all but punched from his lungs. Fuck, he  _ needs  _ to apologize, to make it okay.     
  
“Sorry, I -”    
  
“I’m _ working on it  _ !”

Dan closes his eyes, thinks back to their book tour when a short-tempered father had yelled unapologetically about lines and waiting times and how shittily the event was organized. (Specifically, Dan thinks about the way Phil had subtly pressed their shoulders together, easing Dan’s nerves with the simplest of touches. He wishes Phil were here.)   
  
“You know what you’re doing better than I do,” he manages to agree, exceedingly polite for someone who’s about to have a bloody panic attack,  _ thankyouverymuch _ . He receives no further response, and instinctively, he’s digging into his pocket, reaching for his phone so that he has something to occupy his regrettably trembling hands. Instead of relying on a quick game of Crossy Road to distract him, though, he finds his thumb hovering over Phil’s contact.. _ Too flipping dependent _ , he scolds himself. Right now, though, he can’t find it in himself to give a shit, and types out a message anyway. 

 

Phil takes a while to answer the last text - starts typing, then stops, then starts again, his hesitancy documented by the little ellipses that pop up every so often. It’s a touchy subject. Dan knows Phil doesn’t want to push the wrong buttons. 

He relaxes, the tiniest bit with the knowledge that Phil cares. His heart is still hammering anxiously against his ribcage, but he can feel the tension ebb, just a little.   


By the end of the cab ride, Dan feels a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Food. Studio Ghibli. Two things that help Dan wind down like nothing else. (Though a hug from Phil would do the trick better than anything ever could.) Phil’s always been the best at making him feel better - he's practically an expert in curing Dan’s sadness, and Dan’s overwhelmingly grateful to have someone so perfect for him. 

Dan’s knows that it’s not fair for him to want more than what Phil gives him. 

He’s greedy, so he does anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my tumblr is inactive as hell why am i like this

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment/kudos if you enjoyed! i appreciate it!


End file.
